Page 94 of Faking Forever
Yes, Smith was a doting uncle and incredibly proud of his nephews’ genius. But it was difficult to be enthusiastic about their clearly outstanding achievements when he was so fucking preoccupied with his own personal shit.
Just another item to add to the growing list of Smith’s many flaws.
“You’re right. Itdoessound like Dada,” he absentlyappeased Harris, even though Jamie’s happy chatter hadn’t produced anything sounding remotely similar to the English language as far as Smith could discern.
He quickly typed a reply to Kenna.
I’ll be there too. I’m on the team
He’d adamantly refused to play for weeks now, but he didn’t want Kenna to change her mind because she thought he’d be underfoot all evening. If she knew he was playing, she’d expect him to be preoccupied.
Kenny
You are? I thought tennis was the only sport you could play.
He glowered at his screen, a little affronted.
I’m good at other sports. I just prefer tennis.
Kenny
Okay.
I’ll see you later then.
Kenny
I suppose so.
Not very promising. In fact, the exchange had been downright frosty.
But she was going to be there tonight and damned if that knowledge didn’t make him smile from ear to ear.
“Why the fu…uudge,” Harris quickly corrected himself, while eyeing the bright ginger heads of his happily babbling twin sons cautiously. “Um, why the fudge are you glowing like a happy little moonbeam right now?”
“Kenna’s coming to the game tonight.”
“Oh? I thought you said she wasn’t speaking to you.”
“She’s not, but we have agreed to give each other a heads-up if we thought there was a chance we’d be occupying the same areas around town.”
“Very civil of you both. Divorce done right.”
Smith chose to ignore his brother-in-law’s facetiousness. He was rather proud of his forbearance, truth be told.
“I told her I’m playing,” he said and Harris choked on his spit and then went into a coughing fit, which his sons tried to imitate.
He eventually mastered himself and stared at Smith, eyes still streaming and lips clearly losing the battle against the grin that was trying to creep onto his mouth.
“Playing?” Harris repeated incredulously. He caught the adventurous Flynn, who was tumbling headfirst over his father’s upraised knee, without taking his eyes off Smith’s face. “Playing what exactly?”
Smith glared at his so-called best friend. “Football, arsehole.”
“Spencer and Brand will be thrilled to have you, of course. They seem to think that simply adding to our numbers will somehow make us not suck.”
“I think I’d be a decent goalkeeper,” Smith muttered defensively, not at all certain. He was good at fielding crosscourt shots. Surely that translated into decent skills in other ball sports?
“Sure, buddy, whatever you say,” Harris agreed condescendingly. He flipped Flynn onto his back and began blowing raspberries onto his round, soft tummy.
